


The Rats of Tobruk

by orphan_account



Category: Zootopia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 11:24:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8284126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Submission for the Thematic Thursday: Military/War/Law EnforcementApologies for the late submission This story revolves around the Siege of Tobruk, which was a defining conflict during the African theatre of World War Two where German and Italian forces launched a massive siege on the North African Town of Tobruk against an undermanned and outgunned Australian force, who famously held onto their positions by the grit of their teeth, and came to be known as the Rats of Tobruk.





	

The sands from the northern desert being blown in by the ocean winds of the Mederterhayian made the sweltering heat from the sun even more unbearable as the sand stuck to our fur, clothes and made it impossible to open your mouth without getting the taste of salt and soil on your tongue. 

I poked my head up from the trench and looked towards the mountains to the south, so far away that they looked like they were painted onto the horizon, and the sandy earth that seemingly stretched out forever, and behind me to what remained of Tobruk, which had been carved up by trench lines and gun emplacements. 

For now the world seemed still and quiet and a few mammals decided to enjoy the fragile peace that prevailed over the town. I could see a few of the mammals by the anti-air guns frying eggs and hash browns on their barrels while some Thylacines and Dingos played cricket and some Kangaroos played rugby, each tackle seeming to shake the earth around them. 

After looking around a bit more, I ducked my head back down, looking south over the trench through a periscope, giving me a much more detailed view of the terrain, although in reality it was just a zoom in on the sand dunes, the sand that was rolling in the wind made it hard to distinguish between the earth, mountains and sky. 

In the background I could hear a few of the lads singing ‘Waltzing Matilda’ and breaking the silent void of the town with merry laughter. It felt like we were all back home, lying by the billabong underneath a Coolibah tree, idly chewing Witchetty grubs and drinking beer. It certainly didn’t feel like we were fighting a war. 

But no matter the feeling, the reality was we were fighting a war. 

Back home we did cheer when it came over the radio that war had been declared on Furmany, we all went down to the recruiting station, and vigorously signing up to serve king and country. Honestly it was patriotism that drove us to volunteer rather than a sense of doing right. And with that we were sent off to fight against an enemy for reasons lost to us in a place whose name we didn’t even know. 

As I reminisced about a home that was thousands of miles away, I noticed a small dust cloud being picked up on the horizon, beginning as a blip before growing larger. Using a periscope mounted in front of me, I focused in on the dust, trying to define whatever was approaching. 

As my eyes focused, I was shocked as a tank emerged from the dust cloud, making a beeline right for us. “Contact, I’ve got contact!” I yelled out, my eyes still glued onto the periscope. With that the happiness and relaxation that resided over the town evaporated into nothingness; the laughter had gone, the singing had gone and any hope for a relaxing and slow afternoon was gone. 

The Major, who was over seeing our front line, a stoat wearing a Biteish uniform came down the trench and walked up steps dug into the trench wall so his face was level with mine. “Where son?” 

I stepped away from the periscope, and swapped the binoculars so it could better fit his stoat eyes rather than my wallaby eyes. “About four hundred meters out sir, just on the furthest ridge.” He nods, looking through the periscope for a few seconds, swivelling it left and right to scan the horizon before leaning back and stepping away from the periscope and looking towards a echidna Captain standing behind us above the trench. 

“Get someone who can operate a Charlie down here now!” The echidna nodded and run off, coming back about a minute later with a towering red kangaroo carrying a Boys anti tank rifle, which looked minuscule against his muscular frame, but was certainly triple my height, if not quadruple. He hopped down into the trench and set up the rifle, the sand collapsing about ten centimetres under its weight, which could easily be half of mine or even more. 

From a pouch slung over his shoulder and resting over his right breast, he pulled out a massive round; easily the length of my arm and the equivalent of an artillery shell for some armies, he effortlessly loaded it into the gun and began to line up the barrel with the approaching tank. 

“Private! Line up that tank for him now!”

“Yes sir!” I swap the periscope’s binoculars so they were my size and retrained it on the tank, its silhouette much clearer allowing me to distinguish the turret and hull. “Appears to be an Furman tank…about three hundred and sixty meters and closing…wind speed is about point thirty to the left sir!” 

The stoat turned around to face the kangaroo “You better shoot straight son!” The kangaroo nodded, adjusting himself so the rifle sat more comfortable on his shoulder, his breathing slowing. He then breathed in deep and held his breath, the tension in the air palpable. Hardly any of us had seen combat, and I could tell some of the mammals with me were already beginning to regret enlisting. The world felt, if just for a fraction of a second, that it had frozen still, and that I could see the tiny specs of sand blowing in the wind right in front of my mussel. 

As I watched the kangaroo, the rifle kicked back, viciously pushing back the Kangaroo’s frame like he was nothing more than a ragdoll. The trench was bombarded by the split-second crack of the rifle, the shockwave kicking up a cloud of dust that choked the air with a thick brown soup and made the world around me muted, the chaos amongst the trench amplifying my fear. It seemed right at that second the world had frozen still, and that I could see the tiny specs of sand blowing in the wind right in front of my mussel. 

As I became more coherent I scrambled back to the periscope, trying to get a bead on the tank, and to see if the hit was successful. I was able to get an eye back on the tank and in my head I counted the passing seconds. ‘1…2…3…’ Out of the corner of the periscope I saw it, the slug moving so fast that it was nothing more than a golden blur sailing across sandy winds. It struck the tank’s left drive wheel, tearing off its track and sending into a spin and kicking up dirt. I continued eyeing the dust cloud, the fur on the back of my neck on edge as if the danger had not been averted.

As the sand in the distance settled I was able to make out the tank, its suspension badly mangled, but the upper hull and turret remained unscathed. I examined the tank further trying to spot anything that would indicate whether or not it had been knocked out. My heart skipped a beat as I noticed the tank’s turret slowly move to face our direction. “It’s still up, it’s still up!”

“What?” yelled the major. Before any of us could react the tank fired, suppressing the trench with its 2mm auto cannon, the sand around us exploding into the air and back into the trench like volcanoes erupting. I kept my head down below the trench line grasping my ears with my paws, trying to shield myself from the cannon fire. 

I looked to my right; a Koala with a radio-pack raised his head above the trench line, trying to relay the tank’s position to any support that he could call upon. “Requesting artillery support, enemy tank at-" Suddenly, a projectile struck one of his ears, tearing it away along with a massive chunk of his scalp; spraying the sandy walls with crimson blood as he slumped back down, filling the trench with screeches of pain.  
I then looked over to my left over to the kangaroo. His rifle was still sitting atop the trench line resting on the sand while he sat just below the surface, pinned against the wall with the stoat yelling into his ear. “Get back the fuck up there, and take out that fucking tank!” He was screaming so hard it looked like he was going to have a stroke, his fangs beard and his fur around his mouth reddened by his enflamed skin.  
The kangaroo grasped one of his shoulders, blood oozing out and staining his fur and brown uniform red. “But I’ve been hit! I won’t be able to hit no cunt with a shoulder like this!”  
The stoat looked like he was about to explode “I couldn’t care less. We are pinned down and mammals will die unless you get off your arse and do something. Now get up there and light that fucker up!” Begrudgingly, the kangaroo got to his feet, leaning over to keep his head below the trench line, the cannon fire whizzing overhead and kicking clouds of dirt into the trench. He inches up the wall of the trench, poking his head and arms over like a gopher looking up from a burrow. 

Leaning down flat against the sand he got the rifle, sliding back the bolt and ejecting the casting from the previous shell, which smoked like a newly lit cigar as it flew through the air and landed in the sand. He got another bullet from his pouch and loaded it, sliding the bolt back into its original position and locking it, steadying himself and lining up the rifle. He didn’t even ask for the tank’s coordinates, just steadied his ragged breathing and shaking paws amidst the chaos. 

He closed his eyes, breathed in and out, said a small prayer and pulled the trigger. 

The second shot from the rifle caused even more panic than the first. The kickback pushed the kangaroo back into the trench as he gripped his shoulder and more sand was kicked up and fell onto the trench in a cloud of dust, sand and dirt.

Drawing whatever courage and strength resided at the bottom of my gut, I crept up the wall of the trench to the periscope and peered through it’s binoculars, picking out the tank by tracing its cannon fire back to it’s roaring gun. Once again I saw the bullet whizz past out of the corner of the periscope, flying directly into the middle of the tank right above the tread bar. 

Almost immediately the tank stopped firing, relieving from the hail of cannon fire. Soon smoke begun to bellow out of the gun mantlet and other grid and mesh coverings on the tank. A few seconds later the entire tank was engulfed in flame, smoke bellowing from its metal hulk and into the sky, all of us watching silently in awe and terror. 

As we all calmed down and regained our senses, the earth was rocked by a massive explosion, the tank bursting into a massive fireball, and the turret soaring high into the sky, the erupting smoke coming out much blacker and dense, the flames of the tank burning with greater intensity, I swore I could feel their heat on my cheeks. 

The major looked on next to me through a tiny pair of binoculars that were hanging around his neck, and for a split second I wondered if someone else had given them to him or if he was already wearing them, and if so why would he have used the periscope before? As he looks through the binoculars I notice a smile creep onto his face, looking towards the kangaroo “Engine fire and ammo rack. Nice shot son, we’ll make a solider out of you yet.” Some field medics who had just hopped down into the trench helped him up, two taking him away from the trench to the medical station while others went around the trench tending to others. 

Once again a calm fell over the town, but this time it was mixed in with a deep-striking paranoia. In the trench mammals shared smokes rather than songs and tales as we scanned the horizon, knowing that the Furmans had much more in store for us. Some of us shared idle chat, complaining about the heat, the sand, and this whole damned war. The Major was joined by other generals, all small mammals that made up for their small stature by having serious inferiority complexes. 

By that I mean they’re a bunch of hard arses.

I watch as the marshal scans the horizon, his fur on edge. I look away from him to the other mammals in the trench, most of them resting their heads against the walls of the trench, savouring the eerie peace through the necks of their cigarettes. I stood in the middle of the trench, still looking out over the horizon clenching my rifle. Another solider, a rock wallaby, came up to me and offered me a cigarette “To calm your nerves.” He said to me. 

I put down my rifle and took the cigarette, holding it out with my lips as he lit it using his lighter, an old brass one he must have brought from home. He looked like a grizzled old fighter, his fur dull and grey and his eyes appearing glassy and carrying memories of an unforgettable past. He looked old enough to have been one of the boys at Gallipoli; he would have been sixteen, maybe seventeen back then, but he was easily fifty now. 

We exchanged no words as the two of us smoked our cigarettes, in a void of our own. As he put his lighter back into an ammunition pocket on his belt he gave me a nod telling me “Keep my head down, might be snipers at the mountains. They’ll be ready to blow a young mammal’s head off now if they weren’t already.” As he walked back down the trench, disappearing into a foxhole that led back into the town. 

“Everyone…shut the fuck up!” Yelled out the major, and with his words the whole trench froze. I saw that he and the other general’s ears were swivelling, trying to pick up any sound. I did the same along with most other mammals in the trench, while others were too tiered or had surrendered to the humidity, and instead angled their slouch-hats to provide more shade on their sand covered bodies. Once again the world stood still, most of our cigarettes had been stamped out, and once again our heart pumped fast as we gripped our rifles for dear life. 

The air had stopped blowing, the world had stopped turning and the sands settled onto the dunes, no longer rolling over and spilling into the trench. And amidst the quiet, I could here a faint whistling coming from the sky. It sounded far away, but it was ever increasing in volume and pitch, like it was closing in on us.

Suddenly our silence was broken by the sound of distant thunder…but there were no clouds in the sky today. 

As the whistling became louder, turning into the howls of banshees I looked over to the Major, who had dropped his binoculars. “Artillery, artillery incoming! Everyone get the fuck out the trench now!” At his words we scampered for our lives like roaches fleeing light. Most of us dropped our guns and ran, scampering over each other to get up the trench walls, which seemed ever higher now. L climbed up the trench wall above ground, some mammals still behind me trying to climb up the walls.

As I run towards the refuge of the town I hear the roaring wail of the artillery shells, as if they were right on top of me. Looking behind me, I see mammals still climbing out of the trench. Suddenly, the whole earth is rocked as the first artillery shell hits, engulfing the trench and any nearby mammals in a massive explosion that tears up the ground and sends chunks of dirt and sand flying and engulfing the sky in the fiery red and orange of its magnificent explosion. 

The shockwave sent me hurdling through the air, like a rag doll thrown across the room during a child’s tantrum. I was thrown into the dirt, rolling before coming to a stop at a wall of sand bags surrounding an anti-air emplacement, its metal carriage torn up by the tank’s initial barrage.

My mind was sent into a spin, and an overwhelming pain shot though my body as I struggled to my feet, it felt as if someone had put hot coals underneath my fur. As I stood upright, I felt my forehead become wet and my head became heavy. I took my paw to the area that felt wet, combing my digits through my mattered fur before holding my paw before my face. 

My pads were stained with crimson red and peppered with sand, and as I tried to steady myself, trying to control my breathing I felt the blood continue to flow down my face and onto the ground, droplets of blood being absorbed by the sand and turning it into mud. 

I staggered forward, my ears ringing and my body numb from shock. I’d never seen any blood before let alone my own…I doubt it’d be natural for me to. I just stared forward, the blood from my head beginning to flow at an increasing rate, staining my fur and clothes. I gave the world around me my own thousand-yard stare and I saw my own reflection. Blood had begun to move on from my shirt to my pants, puddling on my feet and causing me to leave bloody footprints as I went. 

I walked past one of the few remaining anti-aircraft emplacements, the crew trying to load the gun and point it towards the sky. “Hurry the fuck up they’ve already got dive bombers on us!” I looked up to the sky, strait up at the sun that seemed to burn the air and cause the sand to boil. Circling above I could see Furman Stuka dive-bomber, their siren’s barely audible. “All right lads, let’s blow these buzzards out of the air.” Said the gunner commander as the crew picked out their targets. “Ready…Fire!” The gun fired, the sound far more deafening than the kangaroo’s rifle and the shockwave exponentially more powerful. Around me, about five other guns did the same, the sky peppered with flak. 

The dive bombers dispersed and started their bombing runs, diving down at break-neck speeds, letting their sirens let loose a terrifying wail that cut through everything else and directly to me. Suddenly, my delusion was eliminated and my mind was made clear and full of simple, primal thoughts. Run. Hide. Survive. 

Panic filled my mind as adrenaline begun to course to my veins, and as their sirens became louder, pitch rising and cutting the air sharper I ran, I ran like I was one of my primal ancestors out running a predator right on my tail. Soon the bombers swooped overhead, and once again my body was thrown to the ground by a formidable explosion, the thrown up dirt covering much of my body as a nearby gun emplacement lay burning, the smell of burning flesh filled the air. 

My legs failed me, and as I dragged myself across the dirt exhaustion finally overcame me, and I allowed myself to black out as the world around me became mute and my visioned darkened.  
I awoke sometime later at around about midday; whether or not it was the same day I couldn’t tell. I was inside what looked like the town’s lonely church; I’d seen it only once about two months back just after we’d been deployed. I’d just gotten off the ship, and we’d been given some time to wander around the town, indulge in the local pleasantries, mingle with the locals, who would gawk in fascination at our bizarre appearance and intimidating clothes and generally to forget that we were in a war. Along with quite a few other mammals I went down to the local church, I wasn’t a praying mammal myself, but it seemed like as good of a time as any to start. 

While others sat in the pews with their heads bowed with their paws in prayer, I wandered around, feeling like a mammal that had no right to be there, like I was unworthy. I admired the beautiful stained glass windows and their patterns that consisted of heavenly saints of depictions of scenes from scripture. The longer I spent there, the more my feelings of fear, uncertainty and unworthiness compounded and it wasn’t long before I left the church and went down to the barracks. 

Now, as I lay on my back I noticed how the church had been stripped of its beauty. The windows had been boarded up and much of the roof was missing, pigeons nestling on the protruding timber beams that made silhouettes against the sun and looked like an exposed ribcage. 

The pews had all been removed, the empty space replaced with rows upon rows of hospital beds. Around me lays dozens of other wounded mammals, some resting with sound relief of being away from the front while others lay restless with paralysing fear that each breath could be their last. 

Although I did see a few sheep and other mammals of Biteish origin, the majority were from home; wallabies, echidnas, koalas, kangaroos and even a dingo who lay fast asleep a few beds over. I attempted to sit upright but as a pain shot through my body and I feel back onto my bed, cursing beneath my breath as, considering I was in a house of god, I felt it improper to let my tongue slip. I looked around the church, to some of the statues of saints in prayer, to the Virgin Marey and to Saint John, Mark and the other apostles. As I relaxed and sunk deeper into the bed, a solemn tear formed in my eye as I silently cried out to them; begging for forgiveness, for redemption…for anything. 

“What bothers you my son?” In a panic I quickly turn my head to see whoever was talking to me, and I saw the local reverend, an otter who was clad in a black cassock and wore a clerical collar around his scruffy neck. I attempted to say something in return, to thank him for his concern, but as I tried to speak, a pain wrapped itself around my windpipe and constricted any attempt at speaking, so all I could do was give a weak smile. “Do not worry my son.” He warmly said back to me “You need you rest, just close your eyes and relax.” At his words I feel my eye become drowsy, and I let out a painful yawn and I sink into the depths of my dreams. 

I awoke the next morning to the sound of ringing church bells and distant gunfire. I sat upright, this time my body was spared of the agonising pain from yesterday as was my throat when gave a long, drawn-out yawn that seemed to reverberate throughout the quiet void of the church. 

Listening to the silence, I noticed talking from one of the beds, and as I looked over, and saw the reverend finishing morning prayer with a few of the other mammals who could walk huddled around him, heads down, digits interlocked. 

With an “Amen” their prayer was ended. As all of the mammals returned to their beds, to either get some much-needed rest or find a way to kill the time, the reverend came over to me, a humble smile on his face. “It’s good to see you awake my son, how are you feeling?”

“Much…much better father.” I struggled to talk to him, some pain lingering in the back of my throat. “Certainly have felt better.”

“Well my son, while in this house, you can assure yourself that God will lead you on the road to a…steady recovery.” He looks from me to a few of the other mammals on nearby beds, his face carrying uncertainty before he looks down to me. “Tell me son, what’s your name?” 

I blinked a few times at his question “My…name father?”

“Yes my son. I wish to know the name of every one of my flock. For I am just one of the lord’s humble shepherds, and I must show as much love towards all of my flock as he does.”  
“My name is Adrian, Adrian Winthrop. But father, believe me, I’m not a mammal worthy of being part of your, or the lord’s flock.”

“Nonsense my son. A mammal needs not be a part of my congregation or a follower of the lord’s gospel to be accepted into his family. He loves all my son.” I look down, clouded in my own thoughts. “Relax Adrian, focus on getting some rest.” For the rest of the day I spent my time talking with a few of the other mammals in the church with me. 

We often talked about back home; where each of us lived, what we did before the war and how we would spend the hot afternoons when the sun had lowered below the horizon and the a cool change would fall over the outback. It was both beautiful and heart wrenching to remember how the stars looked at night and to face the very real possibility that we may never experience such a memorising sensation again.

The next day was mostly uneventful, spending most of it reading from one of the books that the doctors brought around while changing our IV drops to entertain us, although the majority of them were in Alpacaic. I didn’t get to talk with the reverend today, who I assumed was out, perhaps giving a sermon or comforting those who have lost a loved one, something very believable I think to myself as the building shudders amongst the tremors from a flurry of explosions, the droning of bombers flying overhead and the distinct ‘pom-pom’ of anti-aircraft fire. 

Putting down a heavy Alpacaic book on evolutionary theory, or some biological science that required detailed diagrams of skeletal and muscle structures for every page with lines and lines of words that to me seemed like nothing more than a scribble of lines and dots. 

I leant over from my hospital bed, my lower body still numb and hidden beneath restricted blankets. I looked over to a few other mammals, a kangaroo and two numbats that were seated around a radio playing a live speech from Churchilla himself. 

I noticed the kangaroo reading a newspaper, surprisingly one in Zinglish. I squinted as I tried to make out the name of the paper, finally making out the words Pygmy Morning Herald across the top of the front page in bold letters. My heart leapt; a paper from back home! 

“Hey” I called out to the group, the kangaroo looking up from his paper and the numbats turning around to face me lowering the volume of the radio so it provided nothing more than weak ambiance. 

“Yeah mate?” 

“The paper, they got anything on the battle?” 

“What one?”  
“You know, that one from a few days ago. When the Furmans attacked?” 

A look of disbelief came across the kangaroo’s face, and the two numbats looked at each other in confusion, as if I had just convinced them that I was mad. “Battle…I think you mean fucking siege mate. Those Furmans have been pummelling us for four months mate. Being going on for so long that we’ve already got boys fighting the Yaks up in Papa New Guineapig. Fucking hell mate have you been on that bed so long that you’ve lost track of time?” 

I was shocked, and I almost wanted to deny anything that I’d heard; I’d only woken up a few days ago and I have someone telling me that a battle, that as far as I’d known had happened no longer than three days ago was actually the start of an ongoing siege that had lasted for four months. My head was spinning, and I lay back in my bed feeling distraught, still coming to terms with what I had just learnt. 

Amidst my confusion one of the numbats piped up. “Oh yeah I think I heard about you. You’re that wallaby that got knocked out from that first battle. I heard they tried some experimental meds on ya, and I got to say mate, I’m sorry about that amputation they did.” His words bounced around my skull and with a rising fear I looked down at the blanket in front of me that covered below my waist, where my sense of feeling was cut off. 

Mustering any strength still within my defeat body, I tore up the blanket from its hinges sending a vicious ripping sound throughout the church that caught the attention of a few mammals. 

As I looked down on my body my arms begun to tremble and tears started to form in my eyes. Where my legs should have been, lay stumps covered in bandages and sedative drips feeding below the bandages into my flesh. My tail was only half its normal length, its end seared and much of its fur missing or worn down to show its skin. 

I didn’t sleep well that night, and for the first time, I could feel sensation all over my body, from head to stump. 

It wasn’t until midday that I saw the reverend again, but I’d been up long since then. He greeted me with a warm and welcoming composer. “Good evening Adrian, it’s nice to see you up.”

“Father, I…I do not wish to seem rude, or break any level of sanctity that resides over this place, but I must ask you a question in confidence that you will answer me truthfully and diligently.” I look at him; concern painted on his face while I’m sure mine had been dyed with desperation.

“There is no need to worry of such matters my son. I live by the word of God and his truths, I cannot tell something that is untrue if your question is sincere.” 

“Father, I came to this way to find redemption for…things I’d done in my past, to other mammals that I’ve known I’d hurt. But it seems that, all I’m doing is only deepening my sins, that God is punishing me for seeking false redemption. Father I just feel lost and conflicted. I wish to find God and condense my sins, to cleanse myself of my wrong doing, but I feel unworthy to be in his presence, to be in this wonderful building…to even be talking to a mammal as unpretentious as you. So I came to this was, to try and fight the good fight, and perhaps even die a good death.” I laughed, but I felt my tears flow down my cheeks. “I feel like seeking redemption this way is wrong. I feel like I’m going to die with nothing good going for me father. And I’m scared as all fucking hell.” I try to hold back further tears and I feel a frog climb up my throat. 

“My son, you are at no fault of your own, or any for that matter, for seeking out forgiveness for your sins. We each seek out the wisdom of the lord and our own redemption in different ways, it’s that our intentions are true that matters when we are judged by the lord.”

“But father…I’ve” I swallow a growing lump in my throat, the trembling in my arms returning. “I’ve hurt mammals…I’ve led to the death of others.”

“My son, fighting in war doesn’t make you unworthy of being in the lord’s presence if you truly wish to change. I know.”

“What do you mean father?”

“My son I myself was once a solider, with the Ottermans decades ago during the First World War. I’d fought and actually killed mammal my son, I was far less worthy of the lords love than you. And after the fall of Instanbull I fled the country south, going from town to town a lost soul. I opened myself up here, in this little sea side town I’d never heard of before, baring my soul to god and earning his forgiveness by being earnest in my intentions.” 

“But I still hurt mammals.”

“But not of free will! Given the choice between shooting a fellow mammal and welcoming him into your flock with open arms you would undoubtable welcome him and treat him like a someone you’d known your whole life. That, my son, is what makes you a mammal so much more worthy than most who seek redemption, worthy of the gift of fulfilment.” 

I look down from him, steadying my trembling arms. “Tell me my son” He says to me. “You desire the light of god, his wisdom and his forgiveness, why not join the church back at home. The lord I represent here is no different from your home, he’d love and care for you all the same.”

“Now that’s something funny father. My father and mother loved each other other to bits, but he was a catolic and she, protesnout and the only thing they could never agree was whether I should be taught in the ways of my father or my mother, so I was never really baptised. I supposed that explains why I feel to be in your and the lord’s presence father.”

“My son, although I can assure you a million times over that you are indeed worthy. If it’ll put your mind to rest, and perhaps allow yourself to open to the lord without fear I can offer you a baptism, although I’m afraid it’ll be of the Catolic kind.” 

“I’d like that very much father.” With a smile the reverend went off, wishing for god to be with me and for my recovery to be quick. I slept much easier that night, despite the thumping pains coming from my legs, or to be more accurate my stumps. 

The next day the reverend greeted me at the crack of dawn, clad in a much more elaborate and traditional gown decorated with red and lined with gold. “Hello Adrian, are you ready?”  
“As I’ll ever be father.” With that, the reverend went to the back of the church and grabbed a small ceramic bowl, which I presumed would be used as a baptistery. 

He came to be and held the bowl just below my face. It looked just deep enough for my face to be submerged. “My son, Adrian Winthorp, lost soul who wishes to join the flock of the lord, to seek redemption and inner peace. I ask of you, plunge into these holy waters and find purification upon yourself. I say, plunge!” 

With a deep breath I dive my head into the water, submerging my snout, eyes and ears beneath its depths. The water was cold but not freezing, its touch on my fur and skin was a welcome relief from the sticky and hot humidity of the air. I felt as if I was letting go of all that was impure with me, to let go of my past sins so that I may start anew pure. It felt like I spent an eternity beneath those waves but soon I ran out of breath, and my head erupted from the thundering waves of the bowl like a volcano emerging from the depths. 

I rapidly breathed, my body desperately trying to get oxygen back into my bloodstream at normal levels. My fur was slick and some of the water that dripped down off of my ears and snout missed the bowl and formed small pools in the creases on my blanket and clothes. “Feel better my son?” The Reverend asked me.

“Like I have been made pure of all my sins father. I feel free, like the chains that had held me down to my past sins have been broken, and I am now free to move forward.” 

“It’s a reassurance to hear you say that Adrian.” His smile was jubilant and as he took away the bowl he continued speaking. “I hope now that you will be able to rest with a clear mind.”

“That I will father.” That night I slept the soundest sleep that I’d ever had in my life. I dreamt of home, of spending the rest of my days working on the farm with mum and dad, spending my days out tending to the crops without a care for the passing hours and then heading down to the billabong to indulge in good beer, the relaxed atmosphere and general banter that would flow around the idle pool of water when many mammals had gathered there to spend their nights. 

The next day the reverend greeted me with quite the surprise. As I awoke to the filtering sunlight I was met with the reverend standing next to my bed, a wheelchair in front of him. “I realised that it was a grave injustice for you to be constricted to a hospital bed, especially now considering that you have been reborn, so to speak.” He moved the wheel chair closer to my bed. “So I looked around and got you a wheel chair, hopefully it’ll make your recovery more viable.”

“Thank you father. I feel like I haven’t earned your charity.” I shift over to the very edge of my bed, my stumps dangling over the side. 

“Nonsense my son, my charity need not be earned, just accepted.” He leaned over and put his arms underneath mine to help me into the chair. “Here, let me help you.” He said as I was lifted up from the bed and into the chair. “How does it feel.”

I move around a little, and I’m overcome with joy. “Amazing, thank you father.”

“No problems my son, please, spend your time here however you wish. I believe the majority of you here will be going home sometime next week. May even be this Sunday.”  
“That’s a good thing to hear. Tell me…how have the town’s mammals been? I’m sure you’ve been all over comforting them.”

“Yes my son, I’ve been all over town when I haven’t been here. I’ve been to families but also to some of your fellow mammals fighting. I cannot give assurance to one and not the other.”  
“You’re a very good mammal father.”

“Thank you my son.” I spent the remainder of my day talking with other mammals, discussing the ongoing siege, how long each of us thought it, and the war itself would last, and generally normal conversation topics such as our favourite sport, what team we gunned for and if we had a sweetheart back home. 

An interesting mammal I came across was a dingo that was lying on a hospital bed reading a book. He had his right side of his face and eye covered in bandages with his right ear missing. I asked him his name, and how long he’d been here. His name was Glen, and he’d enlisted about two and a half months ago, following in the footsteps of his brother, who was with the third fleet up in the Pantific. 

“I’m doing my part.” He said with a smile, his good eye still carrying a shine and a hint of optimism. He told me how his father had fought and died with the Anzacs in Turkey and how he felt it his duty to do his mother proud and fight for king and country. He was a good mammal, and I wished him well, hopefully he would return home to his mother and brother waiting.  
I spent the night on my hospital bed thinking of my own family. Staring up at the African stars through a hole in the roof, I thought of my own family. I thought back to my father, and how he broke down onto his knees in tears when he saw me in my slouch hat and browns. 

I thought back to my mother and how she kissed me and held me for what felt like an eternity, but could only be counted in hours. I thought to my young, unborn sister. Will I live long enough to see her, will I be able to hold her in my arms, to see her on her first birthday, to be there when she found her love and to see her in my final moments. Will I be given that right by my newfound lord? Or will my story be lost here to the shadows of history? 

That night I dreamt that I was back home, and the war had been long over. I’d found myself a sweetheart, a girl who didn’t care much for my looks I suppose, considering the sorry state I’m in. We’re down on mom and dad’s farm enjoying a boiling summer’s day underneath the shade of the veranda out front. My little’s sister is around playing with some birds, her name’s Cherice. Oh what a wonderful name. 

I was awoken from my dream not by the light of the sun, but by the crack of gunfire and the screaming of mammals dying. My eyes shot open and I quickly rose from my bed, looking around the dark church trying to get my bearings. It’s night time, around two or three o’clock judging by the slightly blue hue that is mixed in with the blackness of the sky. 

I looked to a doctor, who was rushing around with medical supplies to mammals lying on hospitals bed crying out in pain and spilling blood over the white sheets. “What’s going on?” I called out to him. 

“The Furmans have started dive-bombing positions near here, they’ve been killing men in droves.” 

“How close?” I yelled out, panic swamping my voice. 

“Real close, less than a block away. Honestly, who the fuck thought it was a good idea to have a hospital so close to a CP?” He yelled as he and some nurses started to treat a horse, whose wound on his shoulder had bled out so much that blood started to puddle on the floor. 

I crawled out of my bed into my wheelchair, rolling to the open doors of the church’s entrance. I looked up to the sky, and found that it had been made alight not with the sun, but the constant explosions of flak that added a thick layer of shrapnel and smoke to the soup of the sky. I could see in the distances bombers dive down to the earth like hawks before swooping back up into the cover of the clouds, leaving tremendous explosions and buildings collapsing in their wake. 

I sit there paralysed by fear, the explosions, the cracks of gunfire and the droning of aeroplanes, all seeming to override my senses and cause my body to lockup, my breathing becoming rapid and strained. Suddenly I look up ahead towards the sky, the drone of a plane engine becoming louder and louder. A dive-bomber is making a beeline right for the church; I’m looking directly at it, right at it’s pilot. 

I can’t make him out, but as my eyes lock with the cockpit, I’m over washed with the strongest sensation of fear that I’ve ever felt, and I feel the world around me shift. I’m no longer sitting in a wheelchair before a bombed-out church in the middle of an isolated African town nor is it the dead of night. Instead I’m on the middle of the outback with the sun baring down on the land and causing the earth to sizzle like an egg. Before me is not a dive-bomber but a hawk. Its wingspan seems to spread across the horizon and block the sun, and its talons looked so sharp they could cut diamonds. It came so close that I could see every feather and feel its eye burning right through me. It soared overhead, barely missing the top of my head, and with its passing I was thrown back into the real world. 

With an explosion I was thrown from my wheel chair some meters back into the church, crashing into some vacant beds. My vision had blackened and I felt incoherent just as I did when I was knocked out during the first artillery barrage so long ago. 

Except this time I felt a persistent stinging coming from my abdomen that seemed to worsen and spread with every passing second. With laboured breath I looked down to the source of pain, and a sense of utter dread washed over me as I saw a chunk of shrapnel protruding out of my side, easily over an inch and a half digging inside my body. 

With laboured breath I moved my paws around the wound to apply pressure and reduce the bleed out. “Reverend…” I faintly called out, my mind on the verge of slipping into unconsciousness. 

He came and kneeled beside me, his face was full of horror and shock. “Jesus Christ.” He said under his breath. “Oh goodness gracious, Adrian do not panic, just relax the doctors…they’ll help you.” 

I gave him a smile “They won’t be able to help me reverend. It’s gone into me deep, probably has punctured my lunges or something else; too deep for them to operate in these conditions.”

He had a look of desperation across his face “Then what can I do for you my son.”

“Well father…perhaps say a little prayer with me. Give me a good send off.” I begin to cough up a little bit of blood. “I’m sure you’ve seen your fare share of folk who’re on their last legs, staring death in the eye. You probably know how to do these things better than me.” I cough harsher, more blood coming out of my mouth mixed in with mucus. 

The reverend had a look of defeat on his face, but also one of acceptance. “If that is what you wish my son, than I shall administer your last rites.” 

“Thank you father.” With a solemn voice that seemed to cut through the confusion and chaos around us, he recited to me my rites while gripping my paw tightly, desperately trying to cling onto whatever life I had left that hadn’t wasted away already. As he spoke I begun to tear up, scared by the thought of death looming, but also relieved that I’d be welcome into heaven, and that, maybe many years down the track, I’d be able to reunite with my mother, father, brother and my little baby sister who is yet to enter this world. The minutes ticked by like hours, and as the world around me faded, I savoured every second of it. 

Soon my rites came to an end, and as I felt death wrap its sinister cloak around me, the reverend and I’s teary eye met, and with bated breath he asked me “Do you wish to share a prayer my son?” 

“Very much so father.”

“Very well.” He took a deep breath “Our Father in heaven-

“Hallowed be your name.” I spoke, a look of confusion on the reverends face quickly turned into one of understanding. 

“Your kingdom come, you will be done.”

“On earth as it is in heaven.” My breath becomes more rapid and less orderly as I struggle to maintain control. 

“Gives us this day our daily bread, and forgive our trespasses.” 

“As we forgive those…who…trespass against us.”

“And lead us not to temptation.”

“But deliver us from evil…”

“…”

“…”

“…Amen my son, amen.” The reverend said to me, although my eyes had long since closed and my grip had long since weakened. And as the reverend looks up at the sky exploding into fire, he thinks to himself ‘What a lovely day to die’.


End file.
